While Wearing a Sheet
by wetrustno1
Summary: What exactly does Sherlock do when he sends John away on those pesky "boring" cases? And more importantly, what on earth does he wear during their Skype sessions. Collection of drabbles of the sometimes uncomfortable, but always colorful, video chats between our beloved detective and his blogger. Rating may go up in later chapters, probably not more than light hints at Johnlock.
1. Bubbles

**Title: ...While Wearing a Sheet. **

**Summary: What exactly does Sherlock do when he sends John away on those pesky "boring" cases? And more importantly, what on earth does he wear during their Skype sessions. Collection of drabbles of the sometimes uncomfortable, but always amusing, conversations between our beloved detective and his blogger. **

John felt his phone buzz. After a moment of rummaging around in his jacket, he located the device and pulled it out, the bright screen light harsh against the poorly lit cab.

9:38 pm

Details. Now.

SH

9:39 pm

Just got back from the crime scene.

JW

9:39 pm

Need specifics. Video chat in five minutes.

SH

9:40 pm

I'm in a taxi back to the hotel now.

JW

9:40 pm

Five minutes.

SH

9:40 pm

Might have to be longer. Traffic is awful.

JW

9:41 pm

Four minutes fifty seconds.

SH

9:41 pm

Sherlock that's not going to happen. I will Skype you as soon as I'm home.

JW

9:42 pm

Don't like waiting.

SH

9:42 pm

Learn to.

JW

9:44 pm

You'd better hurry. Not going to wait up for you.

SH

9:44 pm

Uh huh.

JW

9:46 pm

John...

SH

9:47 pm

JOHN.

SH

9:48 pm

JOHN!

SH

9:52 pm

John clicked the small chat icon on the screen, its mechanical beep confirming that Sherlock was online. A very irritable face popped up almost instantly, partially due to the ridiculously florescent lighting, and partly due to its owner's distaste for waiting.

"Do try to set up a bit faster next time."

John grinned. "What happened to not waiting up?"

Sherlock ignored him and adjusted slightly in his seat, leaning forward. "Tell me what you found."

"Two bodies, both in their teens, both male. Both were found at various points along the river, so we lost quite a bit of potential clues just from the water damage-"

"So they were found IN the water?"

"Yes."

"Were they clothed?"

"Yes."

"Shoes as well?"

"Erm.. yeah I think so."

Sherlock frowned, and reached up to adjust the screen so it focused a bit further down than his face.

John squinted. "Are you wearing a shirt?"

"No." His tone was brisk as usual, and seemed unbothered by John's obvious confusion.

John sighed. "Please tell me you're wearing pants..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I thought we'd been through this before."

John's bemusement grew. "Are you _naked_?"

"I believe that's the general term for it."

John tried to process this without letting his facial expression give away the mixture of shock and amusement that was currently playing through him.

Sherlock huffed, fingers tapping on the (desk?) in front of him in an annoyed fashion. "Can we move back to the work?"

"Do you do this often when I'm gone?"

Shelock's irritation was growing more appararent by he second. "Do what?"

"Sit round the flat, naked."

"Would you prefer if I started?" Sherlock's tone was dripping with sarcasm, and yet John still chuckled a little to himself.

"Please tell me the door is closed."

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe."

John closed his eyes, head smacking his palm in frustration. "Mrs. Hudson..."

"I highly doubt she will be storming into our bathroom in the near future."

John looked up.

"You're in the _bathroom_?"

"Your hearing is quite adequate, John I have no doubt you heard me the first time."

"What are you doing with your laptop in the _bathroom_?"

Sherlock sighed, face contorting into the "oh-do-keep-up" expression. "Taking a bath. Isn't that what a _bath_room is intended for? At least for _normal _people..."

"Ah. Erm.. Right. Of course."

"The case, John. The case."

"Yes! So uh, both men, clothed, I will check on the shoe-bit. One of them had recently left home because of a fight with his mum, she had threatened to- Sherlock, are those bubbles?"

"What?"

"Are those bubbles in the- are you taking a _bubble _bath?"

Even in the poor lighting, John could see Sherlock's ears turn a bit red.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock pushed the screen upward, a suddenly nervous quality adding to his voice. "We'll talk later John."

"Sherlo-"

The screen went black.

John stood up, laughing, and stretched, before heading toward the bathroom to see how the bathtub compared to the one back home. Perhaps, if he was feeling particularly enthused, he would ring the front desk for some bubble bath. Sherlock always complained he never returned with souvenirs...

FIN

*I plan on this being the first in a collection, but please let me know what you thought- I have plenty of other ideas on my plate right now so I'm not sure if this is something I will continue on with or not.


	2. The Coat

CHAPTER 2: THE COAT

*IMPORTANT: For any of you have were following my story "The Rules We Live By: AKA the rules of Sherlock Fanfic" please note that the site has taken it down (because it didn't meet their dumb 'no list' policy). FML. Anyway, I will be trying to re-post it in the near future, (I have written more chapters) but am not sure if it will be able to remain posted for long. Apologize for the inconvenience, and appreciate anyone who bothered to review any of my stuff!

*Note: in this chapter (and perhaps in the chapters following) John is at a medical conference somewhere, rather than on a case, because I decided that it would become a bit dull to read chapter after chapter where Sherlock would have to ask about "the work", plus I am not very good at creating colorful crimes which they can investigate, and this setting was more compatible for fluff, so here we are.

John booted up his computer, shifting his arms out of the stuffy jacket he had on over his jumper. The hotel room was surprisingly warm, not to mention elegant (the Hospital had actually provided decent accommodations for its doctors for once), and he was enjoying the rare luxuries of privacy and silence which he had all but forgotten after living for so long with Sherlock. The medical conference was just a week, but he couldn't help but fret the tiniest bit about how Sherlock was coping in his absence. Not so much on a sentimental level, per-say, but more in a "oh-I-hope-the-flat-is-still-intact-when-I-get-home" sort of way. The sudden beep confirmed his flatmate's online presence, so John clicked the chat icon, finding himself once-more facing an irritable detective.

"You look cold." John frowned at Sherlock's face on the screen, most of which was obscured by the lapels of his customary wool coat.

"It _IS _cold." Sherlock burrowed deeper into the dark fabric, yanking it more tightly around himself, teeth chattering despite his clenched jaw. "Mrs. Hudson won't fix the heat until tomorrow." He spoke as though she was doing this entirely for the purpose of causing him a great inconvenience, but John knew that was simply how Sherlock sounded in general, and probably had more to do with his uncomfortable circumstance than anything else. "So.." Sherlock paused, huffing a cloud of steam and turning up his collar. "How is your great doctor-frolic thus far?" Even through the chattering teeth he managed a smirk. John frowned.

"My _conference _is fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes in a "yes-whatever" sort of way, rubbing his hands together vigorously. "How's that intern?"

"What?"

"The brunette. Tall, thin, too-nosey for her own good, keeps asking you about your 'relationship' with me..."

John wrinkled his nose in utter exasperation: Sherlock's ridiculously accurate knowledge of absolutely everything never ceased to amaze. "Okay now how could you have possibly- never mind, don't tell me."

"There's a bit of lipstick on your-"

"I **said** never mind."

"She's too young for you." Sherlock sniffed, leaning back into his chair and wrapping his coat to almost suffocating extremes.

"She's twenty-nine-"

"Twenty-four." His tone was cool as always, and with a most annoyingly conceited tinge that always made John squirm, if only because he knew Sherlock was probably right.

John felt a twinge of unease. "No, she told me-"

"She lied." Sherlock cut him off, still completely collected. "Thought it best you knew. She wants children- not your type." He stressed _not _just a little more than necessary, and John wasn't sure weather to be flattered or angered by his use of the phrase "your type." Since when had Sherlock started paying attention to his "type"? He wasn't even aware he had a type...

"My type?" The words were almost sarcastic.

"Yes." Sherlock blinked, the movement of his eyelids the only source of motion in his otherwise completely stationary figure.

"I have a type?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_Everyone_ has a type."

"Really?" John pondered for a moment. "So what's your type then?"

"My type of what?" John wished he wouldn't play dumb- it was really annoying. And out of character. That admitting to, or rather, _trying _to be ignorant of something. Ridiculous.

John tried again, exasperation mingling with just the faintest tingle of genuine curiosity. "Woman. Or man," He quickly added, remembering Sherlock's rather passive answers regarding partners. "Whichever."

"I'm not everyone" Came the cryptic reply.

It was John's turn to flash an eye-roll now. "Yes, whatever. You still must have a type of _person _you prefer."

"I don't prefer the company of people." The tone was characteristically cold, but John knew better than to give into it.

"What **do** you prefer then? From experience I can say you don't prefer the company of animals..."

Sherlock chuckled wryly. "You should know me well enough to know I don't prefer company of any kind." He paused, clearly in thought, before shrugging. "Well except you, I suppose."

John grinned, amused. "And what exactly makes me the exception?"

Sherlock paused. Finally he managed another shrug. "You're the least irritating person whom I can associate with."

John sighed internally- of course, what had he expected? A small part of him was rather miffed at the dry answer, but then again, with Sherlock, dry would have to be enough. John grinned at the irony. "That's ironic, because you're certainly the _most_ irritating person I have _ever _associated with..."

Another huff, the breath turning to steam in the icy room and sending billowing white clouds around their creator's head. "Funny, never heard that before." John could practically taste the sarcasm. Sherlock shivered visibly, growling a little and re-adjusting his coat for the up-teenth time. John could only imagine it was close to freezing in the flat, and suddenly felt rather bad for leaving Sherlock unsupervised. Somehow he managed to be a total genius and complete idiot at once, and no matter how much he told John he was fine on his own, John frankly hadn't the faintest idea how Sherlock had survived a minute without the constant nagging of someone with an actual sense of self-preservation. Of course there was Mrs. Hudson, who would probably poke by now and again to make sure he ate and slept a little, but he doubted she could make him do anything against his will (then again, who could?) and he worried for his friend's health. Perhaps more-so was the sense of safety, and although John knew it was ridiculous, he was constantly paranoid that Sherlock would blow up the flat, or worse, the entire building, in a fit of boredom.

John sighed. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

Sherlock snorted, before proceeding to look downright offended. "John, I have never been _stupid_ in my life."

"You know what I mean, just... " He searched for the right wording"...just be nice.. to Mrs. Hudson. And don't blow anything up?"

"Can't promise that."

"Sherlock-"

"John you said not to lie, so I'm simply stating a fact here."

Right. "Yes well that's.. fine then. Just don't go running around in the cold? I'd rather not pay for your obituary when I get back."

"Don't worry, Mycroft would pay for that." Sherlock said dryly.

"Obviously...Mycroft would.. that's not the point!" John sighed yet again, trying to make himself heard. "Look, just don't go get yourself shot, or catch pneumonia or anything, 'right?"

"Yes yes." Sherlock waved a lazy hand in John's direction, the other reaching forward to close the laptop. "Good night John."

"Good night then."

*As always, please review, read, like, etc.. I am now accepting scenarios for more potential conversations between these two- I realize this chapter was not as closely related to the circumstance as the first, but I just needed to post it and get it off into the world. Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for more!


	3. Sick AKA Breathing Isn't Boring

CHAPTER 3: SICK

*God I am AWFUL at updating. I am so sorry! Anyway, hope you like this (provided you haven't totally forgotten about it in the 20 years since I last wrote anything...) I had to do a sick!Sherlock chapter, just because I can, but I tried to make it cohesive with the rest of the collection. It is pretty damn fluffy, I must say, so if that's not your thing: sorry bout that, and the rest of these stories will be much more platonic. Thanks for being patient with me, and as always, feedback is much appreciated! xox

5:30pm

Skype tonight? Just got off.

JW

5:45pm

Everything okay?

JW

6:04pm

You were right about the Brunette.

JW

6:10pm

Mycroft called.

JW

6:12pm

Just kidding.

JW

7:00pm

Sherlock answer the damn phone.

JW

7:53pm

Sherlock I swear to god if you don't answer your phone, I **will** call Mycroft and make him check up on you.

JW

7:56pm

Not necessary.

SH

John heard the familiar _ding_ from the computer, and stabbed the mouse, wondering what on earth Sherlock had been up to. "What have you been doing all day?!" He exclaimed. "I was half expecting to hear the flat had been blown up, or something." John squinted, and could see that Sherlock was actually sitting in bed, propped up by a copious amount of pillows, surrounded by a good half dozen empty glasses. He also appeared to be wearing his dressing gown and a T-shirt.

John frowned. It was not even 8:00 at night.

On a weekday.

And since when did Sherlock ever go to his bedroom?

Sherlock sniffed. "I was asleep, until you so rudely woke me up. What do you need?"

John ignored the inconsiderate tone. "Sleeping?" He said incredulously.

"Yes, sleep." Sherlock snapped, his voice a little hoarse. "It's a remarkable state of being, I suggest you try it sometime."

John laughed sarcastically. "Yeah I try to, but somehow you always wind up cutting me a bit short..."

Sherlock scowled, opening his mouth as though to retort, but instead broke off into a terrible sounding coughing fit, turning away from the camera as though afraid he would infect John simply by looking at him.

John cringed. "You sound awful.."

Sherlock shot him a very dirty look which would have ordinarily been absolutely acidic, but was weakened considerably by the feverish gaze and second coughing fit which ensued. As Sherlock busied himself with trying to not cough, John shot straight to Doctor mode, quickly taking in the younger man's appearance. The bedroom was dark, blinds closed, but he could still clearly see the bottle of aspirin on the bedside table, which would explain the glassy-eyed-stare and clammy skin, plastering their owner's dark curls to his forehead. Sherlock cleared his throat and coughed once more, laying back onto the heap of pillows and looking throughly miserable.

"You're sick aren't you." John said gently. It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact, and the brief glimmer of surrender in Sherlock's eyes suggested that he agreed wholeheartedly. However the glimmer quickly vanished, only to be replaced by defiance.

"I'm fine." Sherlock rasped, coughing a few more times into his elbow.

John sighed. "That doesn't mean you can't be sick. Does Mrs. Hudson know?"

Sherlock coughed again, this time slightly rougher. "Know what?"

Here we were. Back to the obvious. "Know that you're ill." John clarified.

Sherlock frowned. "Why would she?"

John hung his head in exasperation. He sometimes forgot how naive Sherlock was about the oddest little things. "I don't know, I suppose I foolishly imagined that you'd want someone to help you out."

Sherlock glared from his pillow, the effect only marginally more effective. "That was indeed foolish. I don't need any help, John." Another bout of coughing broke him off, and John could hear him wince a little when it was over.

"How long have you been like this?"

"I said I'm fine John, it's nothing, really, so you can stop with the-"

"Just answer the question." John snapped. Clearly they were getting no-where, and if Sherlock didn't start fessing up to his illness, John imagined he would have to just call Mycroft and get him to bully his little brother to some common sense. Luckily for them both, Sherlock seemed to have momentarily caved in on his level of impertinence, which made John worry exactly how sick he was if cooperation was actually shining through.

"Day before last." He finally managed hoarsely

John exhaled slowly, trying to decide on the best plan of action, seeing how he couldn't just fly home and supervise Sherlock himself. "Right then." He paused for a moment. "Any other symptoms? Besides the cough..."

"NO." Sherlock said forcefully. He sniffled a few times, almost unconsciously, until the need to cough became overpowering and he broke off into a fresh wave of rattling wheezes.

John frowned. "So mild congestion, cough, low grade fever.."

Sherlock looked up from behind a tissue, his voice considerably lower than it had been a few seconds ago. "You have absolutely no way of knowing I have a fever."

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor." John said, seized with the urge to reach over and smack the arrogant look of his flat mate's face. "And you're shivering and practically green, I know these things."

Sherlock sighed, which came out as more of a wheeze. "May I go now, or must you continue to interrogate me?"

"I am not _interrogating _you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, shivering visibly.

John leaned forward. "Alright, here's what you are going to do. I want you to get up, get the thermometer from under the bathroom sink, come back, and tell me how high your fever is."

.

"I don't need to get up to tell you what my temperature is." Sherlock's voice said, slightly muffled with congestion and fabric. "It's a little over 39.2 last I checked, and I've been staying in bed and _resting _just like you'd want, so I'm _fine._" The blanketed lump shivered violently, and an awful thought suddenly dawned on John.

"Did Mrs. H fix the heat?" He asked tentatively.

There was no reply, and the only sound coming from the laptop speakers was the wheezing breaths from under the duvet.

John tried again. "Sherlock, did Mrs. Hudson fix the heating?"

There was a slight pause. "No." There was a tinge of childish sorrow on the words, and John suddenly wanted to pull back the duvet and plant a kiss on that fevered skin. "How cold is it?"

"COLD."

John huffed. "Thank you for the helpful information... alright then, I'm going to call Mrs. Hudson and tell her someone needs to fix the heat before you drop dead of pneumonia." Sherlock's face appeared from the blankets, looking feverish and wan. "In the meantime, I want you to stay warm and drink lots of liquids and- don't look at me like that! Drink lots of liquids, and try to take it easy, alright?"

Sherlock swallowed, his aching throat protesting this extended use. "Yes."

John relaxed slightly. "Okay, well I'm going to give Mrs. Hudson a ring, and you just call her if you need anything."

"M'kay." Sherlock croaked, one hand reaching over to shut the laptop. A moment later it went black, leaving John sitting on his bed feeling rather uneasy. He tapped his foot against the bedframe nervously, wondering if it was foolish to jump on a plane and fly home right this minute to make sure everything was alright with Sherlock. God knows the man pushed himself beyond the limits of any person, ordinary or otherwise, and John shuddered to think how cold it was in the flat, fever aside. _No_, he decided, Sherlock was a big boy, and was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. John reached for his mobile, deciding it was in everyone's best interest to have Mrs. Hudson be aware of what was going on- at least she could force some soup and maybe a little juice into him, not to mention work on fixing the heat. She answered on the first ring, and John instantly felt relieved hearing her motherly tone, padded with reassurances that she would make sure Sherlock was taken care of. He could practically hear the smile as she bid him good night, and John was out like a light by 10:30, mind free of worries.

That is until his phone rang almost five hours later, causing him to nearly fall out of bed in shock. High-pitched screech still resonating in his ears, John managed a quick glance at the caller ID before punching the "answer" button with his thumb.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"John..." The voice on the other line was small and very quiet, and unlike anything John had ever heard come from Sherlock's mouth ever before. John's heart melted on the spot, and he had never felt so utterly useless.

"Sherlock what is it?" John knew he sounded like his mum, but frankly didn't care right now. The need in Sherlock's voice was like a knife to the heart, and he knew that if Sherlock of all people was asking for help, the stakes had to be dire. "What happened?"

There was a rustling of sheets, followed by a fit of the most hacking coughs John had ever heard. "My chest hurts..."

John's mind exploded with all the awful implications that statement could hold, but managed to swallow most of his fear as he continued to speak. "What kind of hurt? Can you explain it to me?"

Sherlock's ragged breathing came from the other end, each breath short and shallow.

"Sherlock I need you to talk to me here." John's voice shot up a good octave in pitch, panic gnawing sharply at him. "Stay with me Sherlock. Now what hurts here?"

"I can't..." There was a short cough from the line, bronchial and clearly painful. "I can't _breathe _John.." Fear was starting to seep through his words as well, mingling with the pain in his chest to the point of intolerability. "And it's so hot in here... but then it's cold, and I can't get warm. John I'm _cold." _

"It's okay Sherlock you're going to be okay, just stay where you are, okay? Can you do that for me?"

There was a shifting of fabric on the other side of the line, which John could only assume was a nod.

"Alright..."

"John." The single word was cracked by another wave of coughs, the breaths between growing steadily wheezier.

John felt his own voice catch in his throat. "Yes?"

The other line was suddenly very quiet, and the only sound John could make out were Sherlock's gasping pants for oxygen.

"Sherlock, stay with me! Stay with me here!" John could feel his eyes starting to well up so he snapped them shut- he had to be the strong one here. "Sherlock, I'm going to hang up now, I'm going to call Mrs. Hudson, and she will-"

"She went out." Another fit of coughing quickly followed, and John felt all the blood drain from his face. "Visit sister in hospital..." There was that rattle again, and through his closed lids all John could see was Sherlock- fighting for breath, hands clenched around nothingness, drenched in fever sweat, alone. The thought made him sick.

"Alright, that's alright..." His voice was unusually high, and almost crooning, as if he were comforting a small child. "Sherlock I need you to do something for me, and it's very important that you do it, because it's going to make you feel better."

Another nod.

"Alright, I need you to get up."

There was a soft whimper. " 's so cold John..."

"I know love," the word escaped before he could stop it, but right now his accidental term of endearment seemed liked the least of either of their problems, so John plundered on. "I know, it's cold, but you need to get up."

A shifting rustle of sheets indicated that Sherlock was doing as he was told, so John felt it was safe to continue. "Now you're going to walk to the bathroom, and-"

"It hurts."

John's heart dropped another few notches into his stomach. "What hurts, love?"

There was a pause. "_breathing_."

"This is going to make it not hurt anymore, okay? But you need to go into the bathroom first."

Another whimper, half suppressed, before another small nod. " m'kay."

It took almost five minutes for John to coax, beg, and plead Sherlock into finding the energy to make it to the bathroom, but finally he was relieved to hear a very shaky "made it."

John exhaled in relief. "Okay, good. Good job. Alright, now under the sink there's my medical kit. Do you see it?"

Pause. "Yes."

"Okay, now in the middle pocket, there's an inhaler. Have you ever used one before?"

Silence.

John's heart was hammering in his chest, fear clawing around the edges as the silence echoed in his ears. "I'm going to take that as a no, then..." He swallowed tightly. "Right, so you're going to take it out, and then you're going to breathe in as you press the button on top and then you're going to hold that breath for five seconds." He realized he was rambling, and paused to listen for a response. "Sherlock?"

He was met with a few more coughs, bronchial and wet and choking that made the hairs on his neck stand up a little. Once the coughing died down, John could hear the heavy breathing on Sherlock's end, clearly painfully labored. The unmistakable sound of fabric sliding down plaster crackled through the line, and John could practically see Sherlock's defeated body slide down the wall. "I... can't... John..."

"Yes you can." John stood from the bed, pacing the room as though he were right there with him, imagining reaching down and brushing away that sweat-soaked hair, guiding the breath back to the fevered body on the floor. "I'm going to breathe with you, okay? We'll do this together. Right now, on three, yes? One... two... three..."

The soft whisper of the inhaler greeted John's ears, and some of the knot in his stomach loosened. "Now hold for five." They waited together in silence, mentally ticking off the seconds until the deep, clear exhale from Sherlock broke the quiet.

"Better?" John inquired gently.

"Much." Was the drowsy reply.

John smiled. "Good. Take a few paracetamol and get some sleep."

There was a sleepy sort of hum which John took for an agreement, followed by the rush of running water.

"I'm here, if you need anything."

The water stopped, and John wasn't sure weather he imagined the light chuckle that echoed through the background. "I know. That's why I have you, John."


	4. Procreation

CHAPTER 4: PROCREATION

It wasn't until a few days later that they talked again

"How do you feel?" John's worried face peered scrupulously at his laptop screen, trying to collect what little information he could from the grainy image of his flatmate.

Sherlock shrugged, returning the stare with equal observance. "Better than you, I'd assume. You didn't sleep all night, and I doubt that drinking four cups of coffee is going to serve as a satisfactory alternative."

Ignoring the jibe, John pushed onward. "Coughing less?"

Another shrug, accompanied by a partially muffled cough.

John rolled his eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Better." The answer was short and clipped, but seemed honest enough, so John didn't inquire any further. Neither had made any mention to the rather... intimate conversation from the other night, nor to John's (perhaps overly) comforting choice of words. Frankly, John had hoped they could both just forget about it, and wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock remembered at all. At any rate, the subject had been dropped, and hopefully forgotten, so it seemed alright for now. John back to the laptop screen, realizing he had zoned out for a moment, only to find a pair of eyes staring at him with their usual intensity.

John started, always unnerved by the potency which could be conveyed in one of Sherlock's glare-like inspections. "Sorry, got distracted for a second."

"I see that." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and John could only imagine what calculating thoughts were dancing around beneath that mop of unruly hair.

"Right." John chewed on his bottom lip, unsure what to say next. "So what've you been doing to fight off the boredom? You seem awfully... busy, as of recent."

Sherlock lolled back into the sofa lazily, feet splaying out in front of him and resting on the coffee table. "Experimenting." He replied, yawning widely in the process.

John frowned. "Experimenting? On what?"

Sherlock waved a hand vaguely toward the righthand wall, not bothering to re-open his eyes after the previous yawn. "New tenants."

"You've been experimenting on the new tenants?" John said, growing increasingly apprehensive.

Sherlock opened one eye just enough to roll it in John's direction. "Not _on _them per-say.."

John snorted. "So you've been spying on them."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Visual data has not been necessary, and I haven't really _seen _much of anything, so I don't think that 'spying' would be an appropriate term."

John frowned again, this time in confusion. "Well if you haven't been spying on them, then what have you been observ-" Sherlock suddenly cut him off, holding up a hand to indicate silence as he gestured to the same righthand wall. John paused.

"Sherlock, what are we-"

A sudden noise from next door answered John's question.

It was a moan.

Well, moanING, really, because it loud and feminine and breathy, and it took all of about five seconds for John to realize what he was hearing. The moaning was quickly followed by a lot of banging and scratching and metal-on-wood sort of sounds, all of which carried quite easily through the walls and into the computer speakers. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling with something like amusement, seemingly non-plussed in a way which told John that this was nothing new. There were now two different moans, obviously a man and a woman, and it seemed like they were throughly enjoying themselves.

"They're quite regular about it." Sherlock informed him, eyes still glued at a spot somewhere on the stucco. "Sometimes three or four times a night. The girl-" He paused a moment as the noises from the opposing flat grew more desperate. The muffled sound of something being knocked over could be heard, followed by a series of thumps. Sherlock turned back to John, unperturbed by the disturbance.

"The girl appears to be more aroused than him-" He was cut off again by a groan, but continued regardless.

"She always climaxes first-"

_"Deeper!"_

"And keeps buying herself new lingerie-"

_"Faster!"_

"And honestly-"

_"OOOOHHH YES!"_

"How many undergarments could a single woman possibly wear in a given week?" At this, Sherlock tossed his hands in the air and huffed, as though angered that this woman's sex life was beyond his comprehension. "I simply don't understand." At this he simply collapsed forward, hands ruffling his hair in irritation as he sighed again, louder. The happy couple's screams continued to fill the air, clearly growing more erotic by the moment, and John was completely at a loss for words. Not the first time since living in 221B, certainly, but never before had he been stunned speechless under quite such uncomfortable circumstances. Sherlock had not resurfaced from his annoyed haze, leaving John to listen to the endless moaning from next door and try to come up with something coherent to add to the conversation. Luckily, Sherlock decided to plow right on, and quickly sat back up, fixing John with a fresh expression of curiosity.

"Is it really _necessary _for them to be so noisy?" He leaned forward toward John, intrigued. "I mean, is it simply a hard-wired biological reaction? Or is it derived from overexposure to glamorized pornography?" Sherlock tilted his head at John, birdlike, clearly awaiting an answer.

John seemed to have temporarily forgotten how to move his lips.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words came out.

"I mean after all,"Struck by a new thought, Sherlock ran off on a new tangent, and if he noticed the sudden rise in color of John's face he paid it no heed, and continued to ramble onward. "You are generally fairly quiet when participating in intercourse, though that could simply be a lack of attraction toward the girls you sleep with..."

The heat in John's cheeks went up a few degrees and he gritted his teeth. How on earth did Sherlock know these things?

"...probably a lack of physical appeal, though sex is linked to an urge for procreation, but I assume you don't have or else you'd have moved out long ago." Sherlock paused, fingers steepling in front of his lips as he let his next thought absorb him. He quirked his head to one side, a look of utmost seriousness on his face. "Do find anal sex to be more or less pleasurable than-"

At this moment, John officially decided that this was crossing into some undeniable "not good" territory, and realized that he was going to have to be the one to put an end to this conversation . "Just heard the maid knock on the door sorry Sherlock!" John half-shouted into the camera, before slamming his laptop shut, face burning, half wishing that Sherlock could be laid up in bed rather than analyzing the quality of their neighbors intercourse.

Some days he wondered what it would be like to have a normal flatmate.

_"Dull" _said a voice in the back of his head, and John smiled, realizing that he'd take awkward over dull any day of the week.

That being said, he was sure to make a mental note never to watch any program with Sherlock that involved sex or intimacy, knowing that it would probably end with Sherlock asking him weather he preferred the top or the bottom.

And then people would DEFINITELY talk...

*Haha, hope this was alright. Just something that crossed my mind the other day and I thought it would be amusing for our boys to deal with. Please pretty please share your feedback with me! Also if you have any suggestions for future chapters I would love to hear them :)

My other collection, "The Four Food Groups" has a new chapter as well, should you be so inclined to read it, and I should have some new stuff up and about sometime this week. Thanks for bearing with me everyone!

xx


	5. The FWord

CHAPTER 5: THE F-WORD

*I am terribly sorry if this was very scatterbrained and unorganized, but I just had this idea  
during my Environmental Science class, and simply had to write it. Hope you find it atleast  
somewhat humorous, and there will be more goodies up this week!

10:03 am  
John, we have a problem.  
SH

10:05 am

JW  
"Sherlock, what happened?"  
"Oh, my, god. Is that John Watson?"  
A squeal of glee screeched its way to John's eardrums, causing him to reel back from the  
computer screen a few inches in shock and pain. Ears ringing, John blinked, trying to distinguish  
the unfamiliar shape on the screen who was sitting in the living room of 221B. A few seconds of  
perplexed staring later, John managed to pick out the girlish, grinning face of a completely  
anonymous teenager, sandwiched between the sofa cushions and Sherlock's very sour  
expression.  
She was probably about sixteen or so, blonde hair tossed into a sloppy bun which teetered back  
and forth atop her head as she spoke, jaw rocking in a rhythmic manner which highly suggested  
that she was chewing gum.  
"Sherlock, who is-"  
"I'm Holly!" The girl waved enthusiastically at the camera, smacking her gum with each  
breath.  
"Um, hi, Holly..." John shot a quick glance at Sherlock. "So what are you-"  
"OHMYGAWWD IS THAT JOHN?"  
"JOHN!"  
"IT'S JOHN WATSON EVERYBODY!"  
The noise level suddenly shot through the roof as a wave of crazed giggling and  
screaming attacked John's ears, its owners all piling onto the sofa in an attempt to wave at John.  
They all appeared to be teenage girls, varying in height and exact age, but all very excited and  
very vocal.  
"JOHN!"  
"HEYYYYY JOHN!"  
"JOHN DOES SHERLOCK HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?"  
"JOHN DO YOU HELP SHERLOCK SOLVE MYSTERIES?"  
"JOHN DO YOU AND SHERLOCK SHARE A BED?"  
"JOHN DO YOU AND SHERLOCK SOLVE MYSTERIES.. IN BED?"  
"SHHHH Becky! Don't say that!"  
John felt his face go red, before noticing that one of the girls was sporting a bright red tee-  
shirt with "I SHIP JOHNLOCK" splashed across the front in huge letters.  
Johnlock? What in the-

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted at the camera, shoving jittery girls off the sofa left and right  
in the process. "MAKE THEM LEAVE!"  
"Get rid of them? Gladly!" The girls began to chatter even louder, forcing John to raise  
his voice a bit in order to be heard. "But Sherlock, WHO ARE THEY?"  
Sherlock sucked in a breath, face livid. "They. Are.-"  
"FANGIRLS!" The girls all shouted, a few in the back whooping and whistling. Sherlock  
turned, still crimson-faced with rage, only to be knocked off the couch by three newcomers, two  
of whom appeared to be wearing blue scarves. Upon closer inspection, John noticed that one of  
them was even wearing a purple button down over her jumper, which looked an awful lot like-  
"TAKE THAT OFF!" Sherlock resurfaced from the carpet, trained eye fixing  
immediately onto the pop of purple cotton, and swept down like a hawk, snatching the shirt from  
the girl's shoulders and clutching it to his chest, eyes narrowing in disgust.  
The girl pouted, making a bit of a puppy-eyed expression at Sherlock which seemed to do  
nothing but possibly make the hatred in Sherlock's eyes increase a few degrees. "Oh Please,  
Sherlock. At least let me take a picture- I want to post on tumblr that I've actually met you-"  
"MRS HUDSON!"  
One of the girls pushed her way to the front, grabbing the laptop and plopping it down  
into her lap. "JOHN!" The single word was practically screamed, despite her alarmingly close  
proximity to the computer's tiny camera.  
"Um, hi..." John waved meekly, unsure of what on earth was going on.  
The girl flashed a gigantic smile at him, a slightly naughty glint in her eyes as she  
fumbled in her bag for something he couldn't quite see.  
"I drew something for you!"  
Drew something?  
"Oh that's so... nice. Of you." John attempted at another smile, still confused as to how  
these girls had gotten into the flat and why on earth they would spend their free time drawing  
pictures of-  
"TA-DA!" The girl pulled out a colored sketch, holding it directly up to the camera,  
causing John nearly fall out of his chair in shock. The picture was a very detailed, full color, very  
realistic image of he and Sherlock. Naked. On the floor of (their) kitchen. Well not completely  
naked. Because he appeared to be wearing... were those red speedos?  
"ALRIGHT LADIES, EVERYONE OUT!"  
Through the mind-numbing haze of humiliation and shock, Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed  
very clearly through the speakers, before Mrs. Hudson herself appeared, pulling the laptop out of  
the girl's grasp and smiling fondly at John.  
"Hello there dear! So sorry about them- one of them said she knew Sherlock, and before I  
knew it, there were ten of them. Double like rabbits, they do... Oh dear let me have that..." Mrs.  
Hudson reached down, pulling the sketch from someone's hands and looking it over. "Why how  
nice! It really does look like you two!" She smiled warmly, waving the picture gaily.  
Suddenly there was a crash from somewhere in the background, followed by a very angry  
swear from what John could only assume was Sherlock.  
"Oh dear... Sherlock do settle down!" Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I really should be helping  
Sherlock out now, but it was nice talking to you dear. And I'll be sure to tack this on the fridge  
for you boys!" With a smile and a wave the screen went black, and for the second time in less  
than 24 hours, John was left wondering what on earth it was like to enjoy a dull moment


	6. Congested

CHAPTER 6: CONGESTION

*Yet again I must apologize for my increasingly slow updates. So if you are still following, thanks for sticking with me, and if you're new to the collection- I'm awfully excited to have more follows :) We have here another sick!sherlock chapter, seeing how they are just my absolute favorite to both read and write, though I hope this one is a little different. Reviews are much appreciated!

"You look atrocious."

A very grumpy Sherlock scowled back at him, face obscured by a large heap of used tissues that appeared to be covering the already cluttered coffee table.

"What happened?" John sighed, ruffling his hair.

No response.

John chuckled. "Is it possible to leave you alone for three days without something dreadful happening to you or the flat?"

No response, except for a stuffy sounding sniffle from Sherlock's end, half-muffled into his wrist.

"You really can't take care of yourself, can you?"

Another sniffle.

This irritable silent treatment was beginning to really amuse John.

"Are you just going to ignore me now?"

Death glare, followed by a pair of extremely painful sounding sneezes that instantly prompted a fresh bout of red-nosed snuffling. Sherlock glared at John from over his tissue, eyes narrowed in something between annoyance and self-pity.

"Can you NOT speak, or do you just not feel like wasting your breath on me?"

Silence.

Alright, now this was getting ridiculous. Tossing up his hands, John moved to shut the laptop. "Fine, if you aren't going to talk, then I might as well just-"

"Doh Jod, dont *cough* leab!"

Hand still on the computer, John froze.

"What?"

Glaring, Sherlock held up his hand in pause, having cut himself off with a series of wet coughs. A moment of hacking later, he turned back to face John, eyes red-rimmed and damp. "I said, dot to leab. I'b board adn I dink I bight die widout your assistance."

John pushed open the computer all the way, trying very hard not to grin at the sound of Sherlock's childishly stuffed up voice. "You're not going to die, Sherlock." The eyebrow raise he got in reply clearly suggested its owner thought otherwise, but John continued regardless. "There's some cold medicine in the bathroom. Take some now and drink lots of liquids- you'll be fine."

"We dont hab ady bedicine."

"Yeah we do."

"Doh, we _dont_." Sherlock raised his voice a little for emphasis on the last "dont", which wound up being a serious mistake, and left the detective battling another coughing fit. "I used it all id an experibent."

Of course Sherlock had used all the pharmaceuticals in some experiment. John rolled his eyes. "There's some in my room, upstairs. Lefthand drawer, next to the tweezers."

Sherlock's eyes brightened considerably at this new piece of information, and within half a second had leaped off of the sofa and was tearing up the stairs. John waited patiently, (though he could hear the crashing from above which highly suggested his room was being demolished) and after a few moments, was re-greeted by the ruffled detective. Sherlock frowned at the label.

"Dow buch?"

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock huffed, clearing his throat and wincing. "How much do I take?"

"I'm not sure. Why don't you read the label?"

John's comment was met instantly with what he had come to refer as the, "oh-do-keep-up" look.

"Headache, John." Sherlock said, tone dripping with the sort of impatient exasperation generally reserved for small children or the mentally insecure. "I am perfectly capable of understanding the english language, except for when my brain feels as though it might..." He stopped mid-sentence, a glazed look coming over his face.

"Sherlock?"

A deep sniff. "Except for when my brain feels like it might-HETCHOO, *sniff* explode."

John frowned. "Ah, erm, right."

Another death glare.

"Well hang on, let me go check, I think I have a bottle in my bag that I can take a look at..." Sprinting out of the hotel bedroom, John quickly rummaged through his luggage in search of the small medical bag he had brought with him. Nearly fifteen minutes of disgruntled chaos later, he finally emerged with a twin bottle of cold medicine.

"Alright, so it says about an once and a half, but it depends on- Sherlock?" A small smile creeped into John's face as he took in the peaceful sight on the screen in front of him. Sherlock appeared to have fallen asleep in his absence, head resting on the arm rest. Dark lashes fluttered across the pale face beneath, fever-rosy cheeks making him look far younger and more innocent than usual. His body had melted into the cushions, torso wrapped in a blanket as he breathed in slowly through his mouth to accommodate for his head cold. John smiled, quietly clicking the laptop shut, before reaching for his phone to send a quick text. However, before he could even open a new message, the device vibrated.

6:58pm

Never worry, Doctor Watson. Already informed your landlady of the situation- I'm sure she will take care of my dear brother in your absence.

Mycroft Holmes

John smiled despite himself- the odd moments of sentiment that crept into the Holmes brothers never ceased to amaze. Still smiling, he tapped the "reply" button, clicking out the two words he never thought would grace his lips into the presence of Mycroft.

5:59pm

Thank you.

JW


	7. Not A Fort

CHAPTER 7: NOT A FORT

*Wow! I had a huge flood of e-mails this morning, which was a truly awesome way to wake up, so thank you all for your reviews and feedback. This idea came to me this morning as I was reading the Hound of The Baskerville, (I am just now starting to delve into the original canons, and aside from Doyle's frequent use of the word "queer", which seriously cracks me up every time, I am enjoying them) and stumbled across a little section which immediately inspired a new chapter for this collection. Enjoy! xx Audrey

Click.

"John, I'm bored. Give me something to do." Sherlock demanded, the whininess magnified by the crackly quality of the speakers.

"Nice to see you too, Sherlock."

An eye roll. "Yes, yes, I know. But John, I'm _bored_."

"I did actually hear you the first time."

"But you aren't saying anything."

"Sherlock, I'm at work! You're an adult, for god's sake. You're a detective, you solve puzzles for a living, I'm sure you can find something to do for the next 45 minutes until I get home."

Ruffling of clothing as Sherlock shifted around, lifting the computer a few inches to better accommodate the long tangle of legs crossed beneath him. The room was dark, and the curtains (or something) appeared to be blocking out most of the natural light. It was only noon, and through his own window John could feel the warmth of the sun on his back. Sherlock must have covered all the windows- (god knows why).

The camera swiveled back and forth, flashing a heap of papers and some chair legs. The dark carpet came clearly into focus as Sherlock cursed, apparently unable to find a suitable spot for the laptop. Camera still swaying wildly, John caught a brief glimpse of more fabric and (was that a couch cushion?) before being forced to focus back on Sherlock's face.

"Sorry about that."

"Sherlock, why are the windows covered up?"

Sherlock blinked, confused. "The windows aren't covered up."

"Well if they aren't covered up, than why's it so dark in the living room?"

"Because I'm not IN the living room John."

John frowned.

"Then where are you?"

A long, indignant sigh, as though it physically pained Sherlock to have to explain such obvious knowledge. "I am in my mind palace, John, do keep up."

What? "And I am seeing your mind palace through skype?"

"Not my metaphorical mind palace, John, my ACTUAL mind palace." Angrily, Sherlock tossed out an arm, pushing aside what appeared to be a blanket that was draped behind him, revealing the shockingly bright living room, before pulling the faux curtain back into place. The sudden flash from dark to light to dark again left John blinking in surprise and poorly suppressed amusement. Laughing, John finally managed to pull together a straight face.

"You built a blanket fort in our living room?"

Sherlock pursed him lips. "Not a _blanket fort_, John. It is a highly simplistic structure in which I can collect my thoughts under the most concentrated of circumstances."

"What's it made of?"

Sherlock chewed on the inside of his lip, resentment clear in every line of his face. "My structure is composed of... upholstered items, in addition to-"

"Blankets." John said bluntly.

A slight pause. "Yes."

"You built a blanket fort in our living room..."

Sherlock stiffened. "Well I will be certain not to do so again, if it _bothers_ you so much."

Pause.

"Do we have any boxes?"

John frowned. "Do we have any whats?"

"_Boxes_, John. Do we have any boxes?"

"Erm, well maybe, somewhere..."

"Have we still got that one from the new refrigerator Mrs. Hudson bought?"

"Uh, yes I think so, but Sherlock-"

The screen went black, leaving a very puzzled John Watson staring blankly at the empty screen. The next few hours went by much the same as usual, that is until about 5:00, when his phone buzzed with a text.

5:03pm

Sorry to bother you dear, but I thought you might want to know that Sherlock has taped himself inside our old fridge box. Won't come out... Said something about "more concentrated thinking"? I do hope he's alright.. Left some biscuits next to him.

-Mrs. H

John gaped at the phone, torn between exasperation and laughter.

Concentrated thinking.

Amazing how the world's only consulting detective was really just a smart-alecky ten-year-old at heart.

Perhaps John should buy him a playhouse for Christmas...


	8. In The Kitchen

CHAPTER 8: IN THE KITCHEN

**Hey everyone! Clearly, my ability to update is spastic at best, but I'm pleased with how this chapter turned out, so I hope it makes up for the long wait between updates. **

**I have been really stuck on my other project ("Bit Not Good"), and decided that the best way to clear writer's block is take a break and work on something different. **

**So I have returned to this! This chapter is something I've had floating around for some time. I've always liked the idea of Sherlock messing about in the kitchen, and that perhaps he can (secretly) cook rather well. Looking back though, I think the gay factor kind of shoots through the roof (sorry non-shippers), and my restrictions about fluff basically died out. Anywho, hope it's alright anyway. **

**Always love to hear your feedback!**

**XX**

By this point in his (relationship? partnership? association?) with Sherlock, John was generally not surprised to receive vague, odd-ball messages at strange hours of the day from the detective. However, these messages tended to be commands more often than questions. Sherlock was simply not the sort who felt the need to express any type of confusion (probably because he already knew about everything under the sun), and the few things which he was unclear about were usually short-term and unnecessary to discuss with others.

Additionally, Sherlock didn't cook.

So naturally, when John got a text at 4:00am, asking whether they had any sage, he was more than a little put-off.

Not a minute later, his laptop was chiming cheerily at a Skype request, leaving John to shuffle into Harry's living room to silence the blaring noise. And of course, he knew Sherlock simply couldn't take "no" for an answer.

"Hello?"

"John!"

John blinked sleepily, rubbing his eyes. "Sherlock, it's four in the bloody morning, what do you want?"

"Do we have any sage?"

John yawned. "Are you ill?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Of course not, why would you think that?"

John stretched. "Is there an emergency?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"We don't have any sage."

"Well if we don't have any," John leaned forward, mouth turning downwards slightly into a 'what in god's name are you calling me for' look, "...then why did you bother waking me up?"

Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently on the kitchen table. "What goes well with ham?"

"Pardon?"

Sherlock was looking thoughtful now. "Not basil, rosemary perhaps...?"

John was getting nervous. "Are you doing an experiment?"

"Oh no, nothing like that." Sherlock assured him, vaguely waving a hand off to the side.

"Then please, enlighten me. In the name of all that is holy, what in blazes are you doing with herbs at 4am?!"

The aggressive nature of his tone must have snapped Sherlock back to reality, seeing how he had been staring dreamily off into space. "Hmm? Oh I'm making a soufflé. Suppose I'll have to make do without the sage though. Right, well goodnight John." Sherlock moved to shut off the computer, but was quickly halted by John.

"Since when do you cook?!"

Blue eyes frowned into the camera, looking a bit hurt. "Since always. I'm not a child, John. I am perfectly capable of preparing a simple meal."

John snorted. "Right. Well I'll keep that in mind the next time I'm trying to force dinner down your throat."

"Being able to cook has very little to do with the desire to consume food."

"Evidently."

"Obvious."

"And here I thought you just wanted to purposefully make my life more difficult." John added with a chuckle.

A very hurt look crossed Sherlock's face. Suddenly it was like a curtain had fallen, shutting off any of the curious energy from a few moments ago. Sherlock opened his mouth, as though in the transitional space between thoughts, but instead inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as an apparently delicious smell wafted through the room.

John rather wished he knew what it was.

"Sherlock?"

The taller man stood up, (still dressed in day clothes) and moved to the stove, pulling out something beyond John's line of sight. A moment later, he returned to the table, a golden pouf of soufflé gently nestled on a red plate.

"Looks good." It looked absolutely amazing, but John knew better than to go heavy handed on the compliments. Then, hesitantly: "Would you make one some time I'm home?"

Sherlock glanced up, clearly taken aback. "You want me to cook?"

"Only if you want to." John shrugged, trying to look indifferent. "You know, mix things up."

Sherlock pondered that, thinking lines forming between his eyes as he weighed the pros and cons.

"Yes, Alright." He finally said.

John couldn't help but smile. "Good."

Bit of an awkward pause.

"Well, goodnight then."

"John..."

Sherlock was looking at him again, that hurt look playing across his soft features again, blue eyes like glass staring into John's. "I don't try to make your life difficult." He licked his lips. "I know that my... personality can be trying, but I would never..." He swallowed, and John could see thee nervous bob of his adam's apple, fluttering beneath the freckled skin of his neck. "I would never do anything to cause you hardship."

An uncomfortable tightness churned in John's stomach, rather like he had been punched several times. "I know that." He muttered, trying to not get all mushy and weird like he did sometimes when Sherlock was around.

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Good."

"Well goodnight."

"Goodnight John."


	9. Puzzled

CHAPTER 9: PUZZLED

**Wow, thank you all for the amazing feedback! It means a lot to me :) **

**Here's a 2nd chapter up in less then a day- I feel accomplished. Reviews are ever appreciated**.

"Coffee shop." Sherlock responded, before John could bother asking him where he was. "I needed to get out of the flat."

"Mmmm, funny, I don't ever recall hearing you say that before.. generally I believe I'm the one who forces you into the outside world."

Sherlock huffed. "The internet was out- how could I work without the internet, John?"

"I thought you weren't working."

"Not when my laptop is out of service."

"Which would explain why you're using mine?"

"Obviously."

"Hmm."

The screen on Sherlock's end tilted a bit, hands adjusting to accommodate for the warm rays of sunlight that were filtering through the shop's small windows. The shop appeared to be quite full, and John could hear the cheery buzz of conversation in the background- mixed in with the periodic opening and closing of the glass doors as customers filed in and out of the crowded space. The pastry case was visible in the righthand corner of the screen, and seeing it alone was enough to make John practically smell the coffee and lemon bars.

"John?"

John turned back to the detective.

"Yes?"

"Anytime you'd like to return to this planet and look at the medical file would be excellent."

"Oh, yes, right..."

Sherlock gave a nod and picked up his coffee. "At your convenience." He took a sip, before placing the mug back on the table and extracting a thick file folder from beneath his chair. John shifted forward.

"I've already determined that our victim died from a gun shot wound to the left kidney, after refusing to participate in an erotic act with her husband-" John quirked a smile. Sherlock ignored him.

"However..." Sherlock leafed through the file and placed a photo for John to look at. "There appear to be small bruises along her neck and upper breast area... the pattern is not consistent with strangulation, and there were no apparent signs of struggle anyway, so strangulation is not likely to begin with... I suppose something more serious, like thromboctopenia, is a possibility, but the woman seemed to be in excellent health aside from the bruises, and if she HAD suffered from a blood disease, there would have been considerably larger quantities of blood visible at the scene- John why are you laughing?" A sharp glance forward was enough to catch John's eye, and Sherlock did not miss the laughter muffled behind the rim of a tea cup. John set down his tea, still laughing, Sherlock looking confused.

"Why are you laughing?" Sherlock snapped.

John coughed, collecting himself. "So you really don't know what those bruises are?"

"Do I ever ask redundant questions? If I knew, why on earth would I be asking you?!"

"Touche." John took another sip of tea, artfully biding his time in responding to Sherlock's question. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why does anyone ask if they can ASK a question? In doing so, and by my decision to respond to your question, I have already answered a question, meaning that even if I should answer 'no',-"

"Have you ever given a hickey?"

Sherlock paused, mid rant, looking perplexed. "A what?"

John chuckled. "A hickey! It's a little bruise."

Sherlock frowned. "I've injured people, if that's what you mean..."

_Of course he doesn't know what a hickey is... _"No! It's a little bruise you get when someone applies too much pressure with their lips when they kiss you."

Sherlock opened his mouth before shutting it rather quickly, ears going a bit pink.

John continued. "Those marks," John gestured to the photo "..are hickeys. The woman's husband probably gave them to her. Well, unless she was having an affair- I'm sure you can figure it out based on the type of shampoo she was using or something... "

Sherlock had suddenly become very interested in his fingernails and was avoiding John's gaze.

"Are you blushing?"

Sherlock's cheeks had gone a brilliant shade of pink. "No. Don't mock me John."

"I'm not mocking you."

Death glare.

"Oh come on, Sherlock, I'm just teasing. But did you really not know that those were hickeys?"

A sniff.

"Seriously?"

Sherlock took a hasty sip of coffee, ears and neck still blushing pink. "Well, I'm glad we've wrapped up all the lose ends, I'll go and tell Lestrade-"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock looked warily up. "Yes alright, I didn't know what the bruises were, and frankly I don't see why it matters."

"It doesn't."

"Well good." Sherlock snapped, and moved to shut the laptop.

"I wasn't making fun of you, you know."

Sherlock paused. "Yes, I know that."

"Alright. Just making sure."

Pause.

"But you know, I have to take some satisfaction in being right for once..." John grinned. "You've only failed to notice something like once. Ever."

Sherlock looked up, an evil grin edging along his face. "Oh I don't know about that... I didn't fail to notice anything, I just didn't know the context of her injury. But, now that I do, I can see that you appear to be suffering the same affliction, John. Tell Sarah to ease off a bit on the teeth, would you?"

The screen went black and John was left staring at a blank computer, ears flushing as he yanked his scarf more tightly around his neck, face burning.

**Feel free to interpret this as platonic or as slash-y as you wish... Thanks for reading! I would love to accept potential situations/chapter prompts for this, so if you have any ideas, please share! **


	10. Comatose

CHAPTER 10: COMATOSE

**Please don't have a heart attack- the chapter is comedic, I promise. (No Sherlock angst today.) I am so proud- I managed to write a 10th chapter of something. #Winning. **

"John, I'm going to die."

"Funny, you look fairly healthy from this angle... but maybe there's something wrong with my laptop-"

"Shut up. I'm dying."

"How's that, exactly?"

Sherlock sighed a long, drawn out huff, as he sprawled languidly on the sofa, long limbs flopped over the sides like a rag doll.

"I never want to move again."

"Really?"

"Ever."

"And why's that?"

"Because I can't."

John's face flashed with concern. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"Yes." The word was whined out with a little huff, and Sherlock turned his head to better inspect the back of the couch.

John sighed. "What'd you do this time?"

There was a string of mumbles, buried into the leather of the sofa.

"Sherlock, if you're going to bother skyping me, you might as well look in my general direction when we talk."

Sherlock flopped around to face John, groaning dramatically. "I believe I may explode."

John wasn't sure weather to laugh or frown or blush or shut off the laptop and simply not inquire any further. He chose the second option. "How's that?"

Sherlock groaned again and smashed a throw pillow over his face. "I have eaten approximately eighteen cupcakes in the last two hours."

"Sherlock-"

"...and some other things."

"Such as?"

Sherlock tossed the pillow onto the floor, ruffling his hair and looking pained. "Well, in addition to the tin of biscuits and four mince pies, there may possibly also have been mashed potatoes and chicken and vegetables and that leftover chinese from the other night and some fruit and that box of crackers that you got from your sister for Christmas-"

"Those were a gift!"

"They have pecans in them, which I know you don't like. Anyway, that's not the point. I feel ghastly."

"Yes, that will happen when you eat 12,000 calories in one sitting... why exactly did you do this? If you're trying to put on weight-"

"It was for science, Jawn! I had to test weather it was possible for one person to-"

"Never mind, I don't want to know... Just don't do it again."

"But I'm not done yet! The case requires that I-"

"Sherlock, I'm pretty sure the ONLY thing you are required to do is show up and tell Lestrade what you know. Whatever this experiment is, is blatantly unnecessary and potentially hazardous to your health!"

Sherlock sighed and pulled his knees to his chest. "I feel ill."

John suppressed a chuckle. "Yes, that'll happen. Drink some water, get some sleep. You'll feel better in a few hours."

" 'm not tired." Sherlock muttered, yawning.

"Well try to sleep anyway."

The slight flickering of light visible on Sherlock's drowsy features seemed to indicate a fire in the grate, and the warmth appeared to be lulling the younger man to sleep.

" G'night John."

"Goodnight Sherlock."

John waited for a moment for Sherlock to switch off his end of the skype session, but the detective appeared to have fallen asleep on the sofa. John watched for a moment, smiling to himself at the cat-like heap that was sound asleep, snoring softly in the fire light. Thick eyelashes fluttered sweetly against the porcelain face, a stray curl lolling across one of the razor-sharp cheek bones. It was almost... cute. John grinned. Sherlock Holmes being cute... now there was something he didn't see very often. But then again, things were never very predictable in their lives anyways. Smiling faintly, John clicked off his laptop- but not before he clicked a

screen-shot of the slumbering detective.

One never knows when blackmail might be necessary.

**Just spent the day cooking with my aunt and cousin, and after god knows how many potstickers, wontons (deep-fried), and homemade ice cream with carmel sauce later, I was beginning to feel a food coma sinking in. Thought it seemed suitable to share it with Sherlock. Hope the result was satisfactory. **


	11. Breakfast

CHAPTER 11: BREAKFAST

**Inspired by a prompt from sparrowismyhummingbird . Despite Benedict's ridiculous awkwardness when eating (or drinking) on screen, I still find the idea of Sherlock relishing breakfast to be rather endearing, if not downright sexy. This chapter turned out a bit different (and quite a bit more sensual) than I had originally thought, but I still like the final product. Always love to hear feedback, as well as prompts! **

"Morning." John yawned widely. He stretched, cracking his back in the process. Sherlock gave him a nod in return, adjusting the screen before standing up and meandering into the kitchen, leaving the laptop situated on the coffee table.

"You really shouldn't sleep on your side, you know," John heard from the kitchen. "It's giving you neck problems." There was a flurry of sound in the background as Sherlock opened drawers and turned on the stove. John smirked.

"Is that a hint of compassion that I hear?" John said sarcastically, rubbing his sore neck. "Sentiment finally getting to you?"

"Of course not." Sherlock replied, now opening the fridge and removing a carton of eggs. "But I can't have my blogger disturbing his transport, now can I?" Sherlock shot a glance in John's direction, eyes soft. The early morning light sent shafts of gold onto the detective's playful face, John felt his stomach flutter oddly. Awkwardly, he turned away, quickly glancing back to the heap of paperwork in front of him. He contemplated the case file, skimming through the autopsy report and crime scene photos, and was rather lost in time, until the clatter of silverware shot him back to the present.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, through a small bite of toast. He licked the butter off of his fingers before continuing with gusto. "The note is indicative of suicide, but the handwriting does not match the sample I found in the victim's purse." He chewed thoughtfully, taught jaw muscles straining against the buttered surface. John swallowed. The light seemed to be refracting against the white china, and John found himself glancing at the pattern of freckles along the detective's razor sharp jawline, watching those full lips take in each bite of egg. Whatever Sherlock had been going on about had all but turned into white noise, and John watched intently as the detective swallowed, before taking a brief sip of coffee. The mug was lifted with a subtle flick of the wrist, long, sinewy violinist fingers wrapping around the small object. Upon returning the coffee to the table, Sherlock stretched out a hand and began to spread jam on the remaining triangle of bread, fingers strong against the wedge of silver handle. John felt himself blush, and forced himself to look back at Sherlock's face and assume a politely interested expression. Unfortunately, Sherlock was staring rather blandly at him, and John could only assume that a question had just been asked.

"Erm, sorry, what?"

Sherlock scowled. "Have you been listening at all, John?"

"Sorry, I was distracted... would you mind repeating the question?"

"And what precisely was distracting you?"

John felt his ears warm. "Nothing."

Sherlock gave him a long hard look, eyes scrutinizing. John stared back, determined not to back down: two could play at this game. After a moment Sherlock smiled slyly, sinking back into his chair with an amused look.

John was suddenly concerned. "What's that look for?"

Sherlock shrugged, still glinting with an impish glee. "Nothing."

"Right." There was a pause, in which John grew increasingly apprehensive, and Sherlock continued to smile in a way that only made John more nervous. Suddenly Sherlock stood up, seizing the coffee mug off the table and bounding back into the kitchen. John looked back to the case file, shuffling through the pages. "Well you are probably right about it not being suicide- the first wound was more than deep enough to be fatal, and most likely would have prevented her from striking a second time..." John turned the photograph slightly, squinting to make out the knife marks. "But if you turn it this way- and judging from the coroner's report- it's fairly safe to say that the penetration of the- what the hell are you doing?!" John shouted. Nearly toppling over in his chair, John clung to the edge of the hotel table, angrily collecting his balance. Sherlock blinked back innocently, eating a banana with painstakingly slow bites.

"Eating breakfast, John. Honestly, I wonder where your head is, some days." John gaped in shock, watching wordlessly as Sherlock began to break off pieces of fruit and dissect them with painfully precise hands.

"No." John managed after a moment. "Just... no."

Sherlock grinned evilly,

"I hate you." John muttered, scowling.

"No you don't."

"Yeah," John mumbled, watching irritably as Sherlock began to un-peel the remaining fruit in a manner that would probably have put Irene Adler to shame. "I don't."

**I apologize if this was way too tasteless or plotless, but I had fun writing it... *grins***

**I will be trying to update on a more regular basis, so stay tuned for more! **


	12. Forgetful

CHAPTER 12: FORGETFUL

**Oh hi there! Sorry I fell off the earth for a few months there: school can really be a time suck... Anywho, here I am, (very grateful for all of the new followers this story seems to have attracted- welcome, to those of you who are new, and thank you, for everyone who is still keeping up with me.) Celebrating my fabulous sweet sixteen today, and determined that a birthday chapter ought to be in order. I know that Sherlock's actual birthday was months ago, but I'm certain that you can all stretch your imaginations a little bit to accommodate for my lateness. ;) So without further ado: chapter 12. **

Click.

"Hello."

"Hello." John smiled faintly, wondering why on earth Sherlock was bothering to call in the middle of the afternoon (while John was at work no less). There didn't appear to be any fires, or chemical spills, or otherwise life-threatening procedures occurring in the visible area of flat within the screen, and so John simply waited for Sherlock to explain himself.

No response.

"Is there something wrong?" John inquired, after a moment of silence.

"No."

"Erm, alright..." John glanced behind his desk to check if Sara was anywhere to be seen, slightly anxious to be caught video chatting during his shift. The coast was clear, so he turned back to the screen, slightly irritated. Sherlock continued to stare at him, blankly, and though it was difficult to tell, John could have sworn that his flatmate looked a bit... _upset_. John instantly reverts to panic mode.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes." His answer is clipped, stiff, and John's not buying it. A dreadful idea occurs to him.

"Did you take something?" John snaps, suddenly filled with a combination of fear and rage. "What did you take, Sherlock? I swear to god, if you did _anything_ to yourself, I will-"

"I didn't take anything!" Sherlock snaps back, looking about 50 times angrier than he was a half second ago. "Honestly, John, why on earth would I _skype_ you to inform you that I had gotten back on drugs?" He makes a disapproving sound in the back of his throat, and sulks back in his chair, sullen.

John is at a loss.

"Then why are you ringing me?"

Sherlock opens his mouth a few times, before going rather pink around the ears and shutting it into a tight line. There's something in his face that looks hurt and childish and John wants to ask what's wrong, but common sense alerts him to stay quiet.

"Sherlock?"

The detective bites the inside of his mouth, clearly conflicted. "I just.." There's a half second pause of indecision, and then the embarrassment seems to pass, and Sherlock snaps back to the camera. "I was bored." He sniffs. "But if you don't have anything useful to contribute then I suppose I'll just have to amuse myself."

"Alright, then." He's not sure what to say to that. "I'll pick my brain for some brilliantly fascinating topics of discussion for later, then."

Sherlock continues to be grumpy, and John's mind is racing for possible sources.

Rent- paid.

Fridge contents- untouched.

Unless this is some sort of experiment on John's psyche to test the effects of being a prick to one's flatmate on any given day of the-

Year.

A day of the year.

Sherlock's birthday.

Today.

Sherlock's birthday was today.

He almost laughs- half in relief that Sherlock is alright, half in disbelief that his flat mate got so wound up over something as mundane as a birthday.

"Happy birthday." John manages, grinning.

Sherlock glances up. "What?"

"Happy birthday, Sherlock."

Sherlock twiddles his thumbs, mouth twitching. "Thank you." He says, stiffly.

John grins. "I didn't forget, you know. Well, not really. I have it jotted down, somewhere, and I do have a gift for you-" Sherlock's face depicts legitimate shock and he opens his mouth to protest. "Yes, I really did get you a gift, you git." John mutters. "I just hid it somewhere I knew you wouldn't be able to find it."

Sherlock smirks. "Don't be an idiot, John. There's no where you could possibly have hidden a gift where I wouldn't have found it."

"Well obviously, there is, because I did, so there. Besides, you thought I'd forgotten your birthday-"

"You did."

"I did not, I just briefly placed the great knowledge of your godly transcendence onto this earth out of my-"

"Fine, whatever."

"The _point_," John says, raising his voice. "Is that I did not forget your birthday. And I was planning on celebrating later this evening when I got home, since I figured you'd probably tell me to piss off if I tried to trap you in a party hat this morning."

Sherlock frowns.

John grins. "Have some faith in me, would you?" He grins again. "After all, who could forget the great Sherlock Holmes' date of birth?"

Sherlock smiles wryly. "You'd be surprised."

John ruffles his hair and stretches, a new idea springing to mind. "What's your favorite kind of cake?"

"Chocolate." Sherlock responds instantly. "But only provided it has layers."

John grins. "Alright then. I'll bake one when I get home- make up for my blunder earlier."

"And vanilla frosting!" Sherlock adds.

"Alright." The tap-tapping of heels on the linolium informs him that Sara is on her way, and John fiddles with the "disconnect" button. "Look, I've got to go. I'll be home by six."

"But-"

John cuts the line before any further orders can be made, and opens a new tab just in time for Sara to poke her head around the corner.

"John, you've got a patient in room 21."

"Right, coming." John stands, nearly reaching the door handle, with his phone buzzes. The screen lights up with a two words:

_Also strawberries. -SH_

John chuckles, dropping the phone back onto the table after tapping out a reply:

_Anything for the birthday boy. _

Quickly, he bustles from the office, still smiling at the thought of the pouty birthday child awaiting him at home, and making a mental note to pick up some strawberries at the Tesco on his way home from work.


End file.
